As she shoved the chair aside and closed the door, Mia’s feelings ping-ponged back and forth. Hate or like. Laugh or cry. Hate and cry were in the lead. Her obnoxious, uptight, tattletale next door neighbor had gotten the last words in… and they stung.
All her life, she’d been told she was impulsive, flighty, reckless, and irresponsible Obviously, Michael Anderson thought so, too. Well, screw him. Screw all of them—especially her ex, Jason Tipton.
Slumping down on the sofa, she stared at the canvas in front of her, the fifth in a series commissioned by the owners of Heart’s Home, called “Life in the Sun.” Happiness was what it conveyed—bright, and carefree and full of joy, which was exactly what she’d been going for when she painted it. And exactly what she wanted for herself, but somehow it never happened. Without fail, she always fell short. Just like this time.
With a sigh, she pitched the rescued underwear on the sofa cushion, then walked to the wet bar and pulled her paint brushes out of the sink.
Why did the hot guy with the hard body and pretty face have to be Michael Anderson? Why couldn’t he have been some other neighbor—one who she hadn’t been warned against, one who she hadn’t intentionally baited and tormented for weeks, one who didn’t smell so freaking good. Closing her eyes, she remembered his scent—like expensive aftershave. And he felt like…
Nuh uh. She opened her eyes and slammed her brushes down on the granite counter. She wouldn’t allow herself to do that. Not over a man who could cost her a place to live. Not for any man. Not ever again.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t call security about the music. This time wasn’t her fault, really. Unlike at night, she wasn’t intentionally bugging the guy. Ms. Braxton had told her he was never home before eight at night on weekdays. She thought she could work without disturbing anyone.
If she hadn’t dropped her wireless headphones in the toilet the day she moved in, none of this would have happened. Once she completed this series of paintings, she’d have enough cash to replace the headphones. She just had to find a way to stay there that long.
She jumped when a knock sounded on the door. Maybe the high-and-mighty Mr. Anderson had returned for something—like to sling another insult, perhaps.
Instead, she found the building super, Mr. Grant. He was a huge guy dressed in blue coveralls. She assumed the full beard was an effort to compensate for his receding hairline.
“Hi, again, Miss Mia,” he said. “I hear you had some more trouble.”
Oh, God. If someone called him, they probably notified Ms. Braxton. She’d put money on the snitch being Michael Anderson. The jerk. She took a deep breath through her nose and caught the faintest lingering hint of his cologne. The hot, good-smelling jerk. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so rude. He might have been able to help her out with Ms. Braxton. And he certainly was easy on the eyes. “Yeah. I burned some bread and overflowed the tub.”
He shook his head. “You need to stop doing this kind of thing.”
“It’s not like I do it on purpose.” She gestured for him to enter.
“It’s also not like you don’t do it on purpose,” he grumbled as he passed her on the way to the bathroom.
Zing! He and Anderson should work up a duet act: How to make Mia feel like crap.
“You’re going to need a dehumidifier,” he called from the bathroom. “Looks like no harm done. Did you burn anything other than the bread?”
“Only some bridges.”
“Pardon?”
“No.”
He emerged wiping his hands on the front of his chest, keys jangling from the huge ring strung through a loop at his waist.
“Who called to report this?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me. It was that uptight jackass Michael Anderson, wasn’t it?”
He opened his mouth as if to respond, but snapped it shut.
She yanked the band from her ponytail and fluffed her hair. “Of course it was. I’m probably an entry in his perfectly organized, up-to-the-minute day planner: Call and report Mia.” She scraped her hair back from her face and wound the band around once. “Make Mia lose her place to live.” She tightened the band another time with a snap. “Make her life a living hell.”
Mr. Grant simply stared at her. After a moment he shook his head. “You really don’t get it.”
Angry prickles rose on her neck. She wasn’t sure what made her madder: the condescending tone of the Super, the leash comment from Michael Anderson, or the fact she was undeniably physically attracted to her bossy neighbor and wanted a do-over.
Definitely the latter. Being hot for the control freak would result in nothing but a shit show. She’d clearly lost her last miniscule thread of common sense. Instead of responding to the Super, she slumped into a chair.
“Mr. Anderson’s not really that bad,” he said. “He’s just detail oriented. Powerful men often are.”
Oh, now the guy was a philosopher. Great. She buried her face in her hands. “Powerful is right. He’s powerfully obnoxious.”